


I am More than this Frame

by Silfrvarg



Series: Proof That I'm Breathing [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Exhaustion, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, canon typical suicidal ideation, no one is having a good time just let them hug ok?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:14:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22229248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silfrvarg/pseuds/Silfrvarg
Summary: His triumph is short lived as he steps back and promptly trips over his own feet, falling backwards and taking the box with him. He hits the ground with a muffled thud, the box bouncing off his chest and sending papers flying everywhere.ORJon has a bad night and honestly the fact he can barely stand is the least of his troubles right now.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Series: Proof That I'm Breathing [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595161
Comments: 37
Kudos: 427
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	I am More than this Frame

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the stumbling and staggering square on my bingo square but that was mostly an excuse to continue the concept from Honey Don't Feed It (It Will Come Back). This can probably be read standalone but would make more sense if you read Honey Don't Feed It first. Probably. Listen it's 6am and I haven't slept yet none of this makes sense anymore.  
> Warnings for: Jon making bad decsions for what he thinks are good reasons, Jon and Daisy level suicidal thoughts and actions.

“I never could bring myself to go back there after it reopened. I haven’t even managed to find a new hairdresser since. I get in the door, I see the sinks in the back- and then all I can smell is _blood_. My wife, she tried to help even if she doesn’t understand, not really. Still, even though I _know_ it’s her, I have to keep checking that the hands holding the scissors are hers, are real, not _plastic_. It’s easier to cut my hair myself then to try and explain _that_. It helps that I keep it short. Real short. I _never_ want to hear another person tell me how they wish they had long hair like mine again.

“Statement ends.

“I haven’t read a statement on The Stranger in a while. It’s an old one, which isn’t surprising, if any of the circus survived I’d imagine they’re still laying low. Miss Armstrong was lucky to escape alive,” Jon sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face, “This is my fourth written statement today, I don’t- I can’t manage another. I’m not… full, but the written statements take almost as much as they give. Maybe more. Still, I have to keep telling myself it’s better than the alternative; maybe I’ll even start to believe it. End recording.”

The tape recorder turns off with a click, and his lips quirk in something that’s a little too bitter and a lot too tired to be called a smirk; at least _one_ of them is satisfied. Still, there’s nothing he can do about that, well, there’s nothing he’s _willing_ to do about that.

He allows himself a few moments of sitting in his office staring into nothing before levering himself out of his chair, trying to ignore the way his legs complain with every movement. He’s not going to get any more statements read today, but that doesn’t mean he can’t make himself useful. There’s _always_ filing to be done here. Much as he likes to think he keeps things a little more organized than Gertrude did the work hasn’t stopped piling up. There’s a stack of statements to be filed from when he was in Ny-Ålesund, not to mention six months worth of backlog from when he was ~~dead~~ in a coma that no one had gotten around to.

He doesn’t blame them in the least, they had been busy fending off attacks from all corners while he was gone, and really it doesn’t matter that The Archives are a poorly organized mess, it isn’t like this is a real job anymore, it never really has been.

It _doesn’t matter_ , except that it does. To him. Seeing the archives disorganized is almost like looking in the mirror and seeing himself rumpled and disheveled, which to be fair is a common enough occurrence these days. Still, the state of the archives bothering him on such a personal, nigh physical level? That probably doesn’t mean anything good.

Further evidence of his declining humanity aside, this at least he can do something about. He takes the freshly recorded statements off his desk, puts them in a filing box and heads for document storage, legs wobbling slightly as he stands.

Document storage is less of a mess than the rest of the archives, there’s at least been some attempt to keep it organized. The unsubstantiated cases take up the most space but are the simplest to organize, ordering them by the date of the statement is sufficient. Honestly, he doesn’t care about those files, as long as they don’t get mixed in with the _real_ statements.

Now those? Those are harder to organize. For now he’s got them categorized by the most prominent entity featured, then sorted into chronological order within each category. However this system is far from perfect, as many of the statements feature more than one entity and determining which is the one most at work often feels too much like guesswork. Still, he hardly has the time to completely overhaul the categories, so he’s been making do with adding reference cards as needed.

For all that this isn’t really a _job_ anymore, that the archives are more of a factory for fear than anything, he’s good at it. There’s a reason he accepted the position, a reason he came to work for The Magnus Institute in the first place, beyond the driving need to _know_. This kind of work? Organizing, finding links and following them, it’s satisfying. Even before… well. Before. It’s the kind of work he can lose himself in, repetitive without being dull, familiar and even somewhat soothing. So, of course, that’s what he does. He rolls up his sleeves, puts his hair back in a tail and gets to work sorting statements while time loses all meaning.

It’s late, _very_ late by the time he is forcibly snapped out of it by a hand on his shoulder. He startles violently, stumbling sideways to crash into the nearest shelf as he looks around wildly, searching for whoever or whatever snuck in here and-

“Jon?” Basira asks cautiously, standing a few paces back with her hands in plain sight. Daisy is there too, watching from the doorway.

“You okay?” Basira asks.

“I’m fine,” He rasps, clears his throat, “Just a bit surprised. I didn’t hear either of you come in.”

“I’ve been trying to get your attention for a minute or so, but you didn’t seem to hear. You _sure_ you’re fine?” Basira presses, voice exasperated and concerned in equal measure.

“I’m sorry, I must have been really focused,” He replies, shrugging off the question, “It happens sometimes. Always has really, it’s not anything-”

“Monstery?” Basira finishes for him.

“I was going to say _new_ ,” He corrects wryly, “ _ **What did you need?**_ ”

He feels the compulsion, like a pull but in reverse, feels the weight in his voice trying to tug an answer from Basira and he snaps his mouth shut with a click of teeth, trying to reign it back in. It’s like trying to breath with his lungs already full but at last the weight of his question, his _compulsion_ is gone.

Basira’s jaw is clenched from the effort of staying silent, her eyes narrowed with concentration and something hot and angry that makes him look away in acute shame.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean- no, I don’t suppose intent matters much, does- no, no questions-” He’s talking more to himself than Basira now, trying to exercise some damned self control so he stops compelling his frie- stops compelling people.

“I can’t help if I don’t know what you need,” He says at last, taking care not to word it as a question.

Daisy is leaning against the doorframe, and something about the way she’s watching them reminds him of a cat, seemingly idle but keenly focused and calculating nonetheless. The impression doesn’t waver as she shrugs a shoulder lazily.

“Basira’s looking for a file, something about-”

“A fire in a school during an awards night, right. Should be filed under The Desolation, 2006? No, May 2005…” He trails off, already heading for the shelf.

“Jon-” Basira speaks for the first time since he compelled her, voice tight and angry.

“Sorry,” He grunts out, leaning over a stack of boxes to try and reach the one she needs, which would be so much easier if his arms were just a bit longer, “I can’t always help it, things just- leak through. I’ve been trying to keep it to work related things, but-”

“Try. Harder,” Basira says, like it’s that simple, and maybe it is for her, but he’s not- he can’t- it’s not even _conscious_ at this point.

“I’ll try. I _am_ sorry,” He apologises again but it’s muffled as he stands on tip toes and stretches to reach the box, “It’s just- Gotcha!”

His triumph is short lived as he steps back and promptly trips over his own feet, falling backwards and taking the box with him. He hits the ground with a muffled thud, the box bouncing off his chest and sending papers flying everywhere.

The world spins for a moment as the wind is knocked out of him, leaving him somewhat confused as he stares up at the ceiling, and it takes him a moment to mutter out “Ow.”

“You right down there Jon?” He hears Daisy ask, but she sounds muffled and far away

He pauses, considers and can’t find the answer so he makes his best attempt at a shrug, “Maybe?”

His view of the ceiling is blocked by Basira as she holds out a hand to help him up, eyes hard but steady. He hesitates before reaching out to grab it, and- his hand is shaking. He doesn’t- when did that happen? He feels more than sees the weight of her gaze as she pulls him to his feet. He sways a little, stumbles, but she’s there to keep him on his feet.

He nods at her, which is a mistake because it just makes his head swim, and his voice is somewhat weak and breathy, “Thanks Basira.”

“Yeah,” She responds, and she’s still mad, which is fair, “You’re a mess Jon-”

“No argument there-” He cuts in, but she runs right over him.

“I mean it. Compelling me, Knowing things you shouldn’t, that’s not okay. And I know you’re not at your best, hell you’re barely even upright, but you need to _pull yourself together_.” She’s staring at him and there’s no room for argument.

“I know, I _am-_ ”

“ _I don’t want to hear that you’re trying!_ ” Basira snaps, furious and frustrated, “I want you to get yourself under control, because if you _can’t_ , then you’re a liability to us. A _danger_.”

She doesn’t need to spell out for him exactly what that would mean, she’s made it perfectly clear. If he can’t control himself, she’ll put him down. He knows, and it _burns_.

His throat is tight and painful and he doesn’t trust his voice not to break if he speaks, doesn’t trust _himself_ not to shatter, so he doesn’t. He just presses his lips together and nods once, grimly serious.

Basira stares at him sharply, appraisingly, before turning away to pick up the files from where he dropped them when he fell. He goes to help her, lurching forwards on unsteady feet, but she waves him off with a sharp motion.

“No, I’ve got this. Get out of here, you’ve done enough for one night,” She says without looking at him, and maybe it would have felt like gentle teasing if her voice wasn’t so hard.

Instead it cuts, and any protests die on his lips before he can voice them. His voice is soft and resigned, “Okay.”

His legs shake as he walks but he stays on his feet, determined to get out of Basira’s way without troubling her further. He reaches the door, which is a good start at least. Honestly he doesn’t really care if he falls over anymore, so long as he does it out of sight of Basira.

Daisy is looking at him, just as calculating as Basira, but softer somehow, which is- yeah, not what he would have predicted ~~five~~ eleven months ago.

Whatever Daisy sees when she looks at him is enough for her to take pity on him it seems, “Come on Jon, I’ll make sure you don’t just end up sleeping on the floor.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” He murmurs, quiet and almost shy, like raising his voice any higher would shatter the fragile peace, “And I’m not tired anyway.”

Daisy grabs him by the arm, firm but not rough, and guides him down the hall, “Try telling me that when you can walk in a straight line Jon, I know exhaustion when I smell it.”

“Can you even-” he cuts himself off, “I would think it would be hard to tell. With me.”

“Because you’re always tired? Yeah, it’s a bit trickier, but there’s a difference between tired and… whatever you’d call this?” She waves her free hand in his direction, pointing to, well, all of him.

“Half dead?” He says with a wry grimace.

Daisy looks angry for a moment, but it’s gone as quickly as it came and without it she just looks hollow and… sad. Which makes him feel like even more of a monster than usual.

They’ve reached the little room that Jon’s claimed as his, the same old cot he used to sleep on when he didn’t want to bother heading home after working overtime. The same cot he’d given over to Martin when Jane Prentiss went after him. It was Jon’s again now, no one trusted him to leave the institute unsupervised anymore. He doesn’t even trust himself.

Daisy steers him towards the cot and pushes him down to sit on it, taking the space beside him and leaning into him without a word, and he relaxes into the contact. He doesn’t know when this became normal, probably sometime in between finding her in the pressing crushing soil of the buried and when they finally clawed their way out.

Still, he’s grateful for it in a way he can’t even try to put into words. Even as it gets harder to resist going out and _taking_ a statement, as he loses more and more of his humanity each day he goes hungry, he can still feel the comfort of another person beside him. It’s grounding, in a way that so few things are these days, and it’s a reminder.

It would be so easy to forget who he’d been before, to forget everything about being human, the pain and fear and joy and love of it. Being a monster wouldn’t hurt so much if he just forgot, he could feed without feeling anything but satisfaction. But he wouldn’t be Jon Sims anymore, and he wouldn’t remember what this feels like.

It’s worth it. It has to be worth it.

“I’ll talk to her,” Daisy says at last, “What she’s asking of you, it’s cruel.”

“It’s not any crueller than what I’m doing to myself.” He admits to her.

“That’s my point!” She insists, low and angry, “You’re already… you’re making that choice, to stay human, and she’s-”

“Right. There’s no point in doing this if I become a monster anyway. She’s right. I’m just- I’m tired, and hungry, and-”

“Dying,” she finishes for him.

“Yes. The written statements can keep me going for a while yet, but eventually, without something fresh- Yes.”

They sit for a while longer, just breathing while they can.

“You should tell them. Basira and Melanie, you should tell them.”

“What would telling them achieve?” Jon asks tiredly, “Even if they believed me, even if they didn’t think I was overreacting, or playing it up for sympathy so they’d let me feed properly, what would it change?”

He sighs, “They’d either agree that this is necessary or they wouldn’t, and honestly I’m not sure which I’m more scared of; them trying to stop me or stepping back and watching it happen. Much as it pains me to say it, some things I’m better off notknowing.”

Daisy is silent, and there’s acceptance there. Of everyone he knows, Daisy is the only person who could really understand what he’s doing. He wishes she didn’t, wishes that she wasn’t doing the exact same thing by resisting the hunt, but his wishes have never mattered before and they don’t matter now.

“They won’t thank you for it, when they find out. You know they won’t.”

“That’s okay,” his voice is a soft murmur, eyes starting to slide shut against his best efforts, “I’m not doing this for them.”

“Why _are_ you doing this Jon?” She asks, just as tired and hopeless as he is.

“Same reason as you. I’m making the choice while I’m still human enough to care.”

She doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t need to, he can feel her agreement through his skin, in his bones. Without words they list sideways, collapsing into each other on the cot. It’s warm, soothing when he feels her breathing.

Neither of them are human anymore, they haven’t been for a long time, but he thinks just before sleep claims him maybe they don’t have to be. Maybe all they have to do is _keep trying_.

**Author's Note:**

> Story title from Flesh and Bone by Keaton Henson. Come bug me on silfrvarg.tumblr.com if you wanna yell at me about these sad idiots.


End file.
